MORGAN AND GUILLAIN HAD been separated from Richard so swiftly that there had been no time for farewells. They tensed when they were taken into a stairwell, fearing that it led down to the dungeons. When their guards escorted them into a chamber lit by a single oil lamp, they were heartened at the sight of that flickering flame, for they knew dungeons were blacker than the pits of Hell. The door slammed behind them and they began cautiously to explore their new abode. It was large and windowless, with kegs lining the walls, and they soon concluded that they’d been locked in a cellar storeroom. The lamp cast only a small pool of light, the rest of the chamber swallowed up in darkness. They could hear scrabbling noises in the shadows and exchanged glances, hoping it was mice and not rats.
But then Morgan caught another sound, one that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He stood very still, listening intently, and when it came again, he moved in that direction. A moment later, he was kneeling between two of the storage kegs. A body was crumpled on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest. He seemed oblivious to Morgan’s presence, but he groaned when the Welshman touched his shoulder, raising his hand as if to ward off a blow. “Arne?” At the sound of his name, he whimpered again and tried to shrink farther back into the shadows. Morgan turned toward Guillain, but the knight was already moving to the wall recess that held the lamp. A moment later, he was back, and as he raised the lamp, both men braced themselves for what they would see.
The wavering light was feeble, but it was also merciless, revealing to them a face whiter than death, eyes swollen to bruised slits, nose crusted with dried blood, with red welts on forehead and throat, the burns so raw and blistered that they flinched from the sight. They’d seen wounds before, seen men gutted by sword thrusts, run through by lances, seen heads split open by axes. But nothing had horrified or outraged them so much as what they now saw in this Viennese storeroom, looking upon what had been done to Arne.
“Do not be afraid, lad. It’s me,” Morgan said gently. “You’re safe now, amongst friends.” He had no way of knowing if that was true or not, but it was what the boy needed to hear. Arne squinted up at him, unable to see the face but recognizing the voice, and began to weep. They could make out little of his speech at first, broken bursts of German, interspersed with sobs. When he finally was able to recover some of his French, they heard only one word, mumbled over and over: “Sorry . . . sorry. . . .”
Morgan had never known a fury like this, the killing kind. Guillain, a man of few words, now found them in abundance, and he began bitterly to curse Arne’s abusers, then Duke Leopold, Emperor Heinrich, King Philippe, and the Austrians, Germans, and French who served them. Morgan gathered the boy to him, and held Arne as he wept, murmuring words of comfort that he doubted Arne even heard.
They had no way of judging time, leaping to their feet when the door opened and men entered with torches and drawn swords. The guards were followed by a priest and servants bringing food, blankets, a chamber pot, and another sputtering oil lamp. The priest seemed polite, even sympathetic, but they did not have enough Latin to follow what he was saying. Handing Morgan a glass phial of dark liquid and a clay pot that smelled of goose grease, he gestured toward Arne, and they understood that he was offering something for the boy’s pain and burns. As his lantern’s light fell across Arne’s face, he averted his eyes and made the sign of the cross. When he turned to go, Morgan called out, “K?nig Richard?” The priest paused, gazed at him sadly, and then slowly shook his head.
Once they were gone, Morgan and Guillain did their best for Arne, smearing the salve upon his burns and coaxing him into swallowing some of the liquid. He refused to eat any of the food, though, and continued to shiver even after they’d swaddled him in blankets. “Will . . . will he ever forgive me?” he whispered, his hand tightening on Morgan’s arm.
“Forgive you, lad? Richard will most likely knight you!”
Arne’s bloodied lower lip began to quiver. “He’ll not hate me?” They assured him that Richard admired courage above all other virtues, that he’d not be blamed for breaking under torture, that he had nothing to reproach himself for, and for the first time since he’d been caught in the marketplace, Arne felt the faintest flicker of hope. “What will happen to him?” he asked softly, and they assured him again that Leopold would not dare to harm the King of England, the man who’d defeated Saladin at Acre and Jaffa. They could not tell if he believed that. But they did not know if they believed that, either.